#anyway... er*dan has idiot syndrome

[onlynear]

@lifeiress​  asked  :  ‘  i  trusted  you  .  ’  for  eridan  ...

it’s  easy  to  convince  yourself  all  there  ever  had  been  was  bitterness  .  when  you  remember  them  ,  horn  to  horn  on  a  pile  that  wasn’t  hers  ,  you  like  to  think  resentment  was  palpable  .  makes  it  all  feel  simpler  ,  doesn’t  it  ?  makes  your  excuse  that  much  stronger  when  you  say  it  out  loud :  you  hated  me  ,  and  that  broke  me  .  blaming  her  works  out  this  way  and  this  way  alone  .  when  you  do  tricky  things  ,  like  think  about  the  nights  you’d  spend  relying  on  her  for  any  semblance  of  normalcy  ,  or  the  perigrees  wasted  fretting  over  her  safety  ,  you  trip  yourself  up  .  strategy  was  a  strength  of  yours  ,  but  death  may  well  have  stolen  that  from  you  .

‘     i  knoww  ,     ’     you  tell  her  ,  trying  valiantly  to  keep  the  nasally  wail  out  of  your  voice  .  the  effort  is  herculean  ,  almost  entirely  in  vain  as  it  leeches  into  the  edges  of  your  lament  .     ‘     i  knoww  you  did  ,  fef  .  i  let  you  dowwn  .     ’     you  don’t  know  why  you’re  telling  her  this  ,  boring  her  with  your  issues  yet  again  .  you  don’t  know  why  you  can’t  let  your  betrayal  be  about  her  .     ‘     i  acted  like  a  fuckin  idiot  and  still  do  ,  and  i’m  sorry  .     ’

you  don’t  deserve  her  forgiveness  .  you  want  to  tell  her  that  ,  but  you  don’t  want  that  double  edged  sword  of  guilt  to  be  the  driving  force  here  .  if  she  does  forgive  you  ,  it’s  because  she’s  more  than  you  could  ever  hope  to  be  --  shining  ,  sterling  ,  paramount  .     ‘     i  wwas  fuckin  stupid  .  didn’t  listen  to  no  one  ,  not  evven  you  .  thought  i  kneww  everyfin  evven  wwhen  the  reality a  the  matter  wwas  i  kneww  approximately  zero  about  any  a  it  .     ‘     you  realise  you’re  still  doing  it  ,  making  this  your  tragedy  .  she  hurt  you  ,  but  that  excuses  nothing  ,  no  matter  how  much  you  wish  it  did  .  you  never  wore  remorse  well  .

‘     i’m  sorry  ,     ’     you  say  again  ,  meaning  it  ,  but  unsure  of  how  to  move  on  from  here  .  you  still  harbour  the  anger  that  killed  her  .  you  suppose  you  always  will  .  it’s  become  a  matter  of  biting  it  back  ,  holding  it  down  until  you  can  turn  it  into  something  else  .     ‘     i  am  .     ’     what  else  is  there  to  say  ?  how  else  can  you  word  an  apology  before  it  starts  to  sound  monotonous  ,  meaningless  ?

[silvertalkzones]

Death Benefits: Part V

Chapter 7

After several moments, the hospital staff retrieved me from my perch, put me in a temporary cast for my newly broken wrist, and released me into the custody of Professor Orangutan. Fuck. “I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” I said.

“In your case, it’s called a 1035,” he said, “but yes, you’re going to die. First though, I’m going to take you to Home Office.”

“Is that code for a torture chamber?” I asked with trepidation.

“No, it’s where we keep our big office,” he said contemptuously. “Did you even pass out of CDP?”

I changed out of my hospital gown and into the ripped up suit that I had worn to the appointment. I wonder if the dry cleaning at Giant Eagle is good with blood stains?  Fuck. Why am I even thinking about this?? I am going to die. “Why are we going to Home Office?” I asked.

“To meet the Big Boss,” PO said. I was surprised because everyone in the company has fancy names like MFS, MAT, and Supreme Being of Annuities. Was it Feeney? Was it Gordon? PO lead me downstairs and into a company car waiting for us at the curb.

Chapter 8

We arrived at our Easton location. PO told me to use my badge to get us in. It was approximately 3 a.m. and the cleaning crew had already gone. All the lights were out, except one. I don’t know why I was expecting something more sinister, but with a gun to my back, I wasn’t going to ask questions – even though I had hundreds. As we moved toward my holding pen, I noticed that the single light wasn’t coming from John-John’s office, but rather the one next to it. Compliance D sat there waiting for me.

“Hello,” he said serenely when I walked in. “Sit down.”

I assumed this was some formality. “I suppose there’s some paperwork I need to sign before I meet the Big Boss,” I said.

“Yes and no,” said CD. “Yes, there’s always paperwork. No, you will not have to wait to meet the Big Boss.”

With that, PO smacked me in the back of my head with his gun and said, “Show some respect! Bowling Green!”

“What the fuck?” I said eloquently.

CD just smiled and in his rat-like voice said, “You have to forgive PO. He has a rare form of Turret’s Syndrome where instead of cussing, he repeats phrases. You’ll find it’s very popular here. ‘Chipmunks and Cantaloupes,’ ‘fog a mirror,’ ‘sound fair’ and the like. And yes, I’m the Big Boss.” I simply stared at him with my mouth open. “Let’s begin with the paperwork,” he said and as he pulled out a phone book sized stack of papers, his whiskers twitched.

“You’re going to kill… er, 1035 me and I still have to sign paperwork?” I asked incredulously.  “For whom?” (Even in the face of certain death, grammar remains a priority!)

“For me,” said CD. “I like to keep records. “ With a name like CD, I would have thought he graduated from vinyl records and moved on to digital music like CDs, or even MP3s. I thought about making a joke, but the ache in the back of my head reminded me to keep quiet. CD produced the first form. “This one says that you have received the form in front of you. Sign here. Now this one says that you signed the last form. Sign here.” And so it went. Form, Sign, Form, Sign. All the while, Compliance D narrated. “You see, when the DOL put all these regulations on us…”

“The Department of Labor is behind this??” I asked with disbelief.

“Of course not,” said PO. “Quit interrupting.”  Then he smacked me again.

“With the new regulations, we had our GDR drop into second place after Philly. We can’t be in second place,” continued CD. “We created the ACES system to help us identify the people who were no longer insurable, who were going to outlive their money anyway, and with families who wanted our help.”

Despite PO’s threat behind me, I said, “Helping?? You’re killing them!”

“We are simply terminating their contracts. We are helping them,” said CD.

“Antelopes!” said PO.

“Calm down,” said CD. “Let him ask his questions. Ok, This form says that you don’t want the last form read to you in Spanish. Initial here,” continued CD.  

“You mean the entire company is in on this?” I asked, wincing involuntarily for the smack that didn’t come. “ACES is companywide!”

“No, the buck stops here,” said CD. “That’s why I’m called the Big Boss, get it? Initial here. Once we complete a Needs Analysis, we know who needs our help.” ��He pulled out a syringe now.

“Are you going to poison me?” I asked.

CD laughed. “No, I need a sample of your blood, urine, stool and semen.”

“For the underwriter?” I asked.

“No, for the undertaker,” he said preparing the sample containers.

“Blood, urine, stool and semen… Given the last 24 hours, can I just give you my underwear?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes,” said CD, “but you’ll need to fill out the Important Notice Regarding Replacement form in triplicate.”

I did as told. Several moments passed when I was simply doing as told. Compliance D continued to narrate, but I think I had the big picture. CLM1 were just “fanatically devoted” enough to GDR, that they were willing to go to extreme measures within the company. CD had come up with the plan, pitched it to management, and they divvied up labor according to skill.

“Okay, almost finished,” he said eventually. “I just need ask you a few questions. What’s your current income?”

“You’re filling out a Fact Finder??” I asked.

“We have to be compliant and submit a Customer Recommendation Form,” said CD.

“But what about CTR?” I asked.

CD smiled his rat-smile and said, “Boy, I am CTR.” Needless to say, he skipped over the questions about my retirement. Then he butted the corners of his stack of papers so everything aligned, stood and nodded at Petey. “It’s time. Sir, I pronounce you ‘Not In Compliance’ and am terminating your contract.”

“Whoa!” came a voice from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

As one, all three of us turned our heads to see Adams standing there, sporting his Easter Egg colored suit and tie combination. Oh fuck! Pete hid the gun behind his back and looked at Dan for instructions. “Adams, you need to get out of here!” I said urgently.

“Why?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing at all,” said CD. “Just some late night paperwork.”

“In that case,” said Adams, “you won’t mind if I ask you to put your fucking hands in the air!” and with that, he pulled out very serious looking gun. Pete acted without hesitation and raised his in response, but it barely cleared his waist before Adams had knocked him to the floor and disarmed him. All the while, he kept his gun pointed at CD. Upon kicking PO’s gun away, Adams put his left hand to his lips and pressed some sort of transmitter. “Pinball Wizard to all points. We got everything – the perps, the paperwork, and the recording through the CISCO phones. Bring them in.”  The lights came on and perhaps twenty people stormed through the doors.

I sunk down in my chair, suddenly exhausted, but still very, very confused. “Adams?” I asked. “You’re… what the hell are you?”

“Oh,” he said nonchalantly. “I work for T.A.C.O. S.T.A.N.D., the financial planning division of the FBI.”

It all made sense now. “So the whole idiot thing was just an act!” I exclaimed.

“Of course it was,” he said. “No one can be that messed up. No, I was appointed to the FBI by our current president. Guess they needed people.”

“Thank God,” I said.

“You know,” he said. “You were looking down the barrel at a claim.”

“What?” I asked confused.

“Do you see what I did there?” he said. “You were looking down the barrel of a gun, and they call it claims, and Slick always says… said that. Get it? I propose a toast to slightly burned bread. Ha! Did you see what I did there? Yep. Once I said, ‘chili today, hot tamale.’ Hey, I have always thought they should put a chair in the copier room. There you go, sitting in a chair, making copies. Oh man, I was in Toledo at this pinball bar, and they had the best nachos! The cheese only took one lick to clear your fingers before the pinball tournament…”

Chapter 8 – Epilogue

So, as you might have surmised, I did survive that particular adventure. It may, however, be somewhat of a surprise to you that I’m still a financial advisor. I know it’s a surprise to me. It’s a lot easier in my new territory because we don’t need cell phones. Well, actually none of the cells have phones here in the Ohio State Reformatory. Oh – hold on just a second.

“Well, you see if you convert your coins into bills, they’ll be a lot easier and more comfortable to keep in your rectum. You will have to get some baggies because the bills don’t wash as easily as coins. No, washing the bills in your rectum is not the same as money laundering.”

Sorry about that. Where was I again? Oh yes, I’m living the glamorous life here, but at least the food and rent are free and I’m able to afford my medication.

Oh, and boy oh boy, do I get laid a lot! Yep. You would not believe the size of my pipeline now!